The Butterfly Effect (Blog #129)

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A couple of weeks ago during a conversation about the number of per-day visitors to my blog (which is good, I think, but not astounding), my friend Donny said he thought the blog’s impact could be like a butterfly effect. If you don’t know, the butterfly effect is a theory that says the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can influence weather patterns, cause something like a tornado. In other words, small actions can affect big changes.

In terms of the blog, I hope Donny’s right.

Because of that conversation, that phrase–the butterfly effect–has been popping in and out of my head lately. Then a few days ago I noticed somewhere that the author Jon Ronson (who’s delightful) had released an audiobook/podcast on Amazon by the same name (for free!) So I downloaded it, started listening to it last night, and finished it today. All together, it took about three-and-a-half hours and was worth every minute.

The Butterfly Effect is subtitled Who Really Pays the Price for Free Porn? and starts with the story of the man responsible for PornHub and several sites like it, which are basically YouTube for pornography and are grossly filled with copyrighted material that has been illegally uploaded by users. So Jon explores that one decision–the decision to offer free porn–and its consequences. Along the way, he interviews porn directors and porn stars, as well as a number of people outside the industry directly and indirectly affected by free porn. Without saying too much, The Butterfly Effect talks about a man whose porn fetish (gremlins and Wonder Woman) goes back to when he was a child (a gremlin) and his mother (Wonder Woman) walked out of his life forever, a former porn star who lost his job as a nurse because of his past, and the fact that more and more eighteen-to-forty-year-olds have erectile dysfunction than ever before (because their penises have become so picky).

It’s fascinating.

Today while I listed to The Butterfly Effect (for over two hours), I stretched. In yoga sometimes the hips are referred to as the emotional junkyard, and mine are super-duper tight, so I spent a lot of time there. There’s a pose or stretch called Double Pigeon in which you basically sit on the floor like a child would but you put one ankle top of the other knee. Ideally, your legs should rest on top of each other, but mine almost always have a big gap in between them. I mean, big enough that Zac Efron could put his head in there, although I don’t know why that example comes to mind. Anyway today was no exception. Here’s where my right side started.

Before long, things relaxed and I completely closed the gap between my legs. This was a huge victory, since I think that’s only happened once or twice before–ever. (See the picture at the top of the blog. Way to go, Marky!) HOWEVER, the left side wasn’t really having it. Check out where THAT side started.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried a stretch like this, but it’s extremely uncomfortable, sometimes painful. But for over twenty minutes this afternoon, I just took deep breaths, tried to relax, and forced myself to hang in there. And I ALMOST got where I wanted to be. Here’s a picture taken just before I quit that pose for the day. (Also– I’m sorry–I didn’t mean for this blog to be filled with so many pictures taken at crotch level.)

This evening my dad told me a joke he heard from my aunt Carla. What’s the difference between a northern tale and a southern tale? A northern tale begins “Once upon a time.” A southern tale begins “Y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.” Well–

Y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.

After I finished Double Pigeon, I did some other stretches and finally lay down on my back with both feet on the ground and my knees in the air. (This is where it gets weird.) Then my legs started shaking. Like, not a little–A LOT. I mean, I’ve had muscle spasms before, but this was a whole new level. My thighs were visibly vibrating. Well, I’ve read a lot about how the body can heal, and one of the ways is through shaking and trembling. Like a duck that flaps its wings after a squabble, it’s a way to release trauma. So I just let it happen. There I was on my back listening to a story about pornography, and my legs were going all “shake, rattle, and roll” for fifteen minutes solid.

It was fascinating.

There’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress.

Eventually, things calmed down and I let my legs sink to the floor. During the entire stretching and vibrating process, I felt both frustration and release, sadness and joy. When it was all over, I thought, This is a big deal. This is progress. Something definitely happened today. However, before I started writing tonight I went for a walk and was acutely aware of a pain in my mid-back and another in my right leg. For these reasons, there’s part of me that wants to discount all the stretching and releasing that happened this afternoon. I’m getting nowhere. Nothing happened today. Hell, I probably made it up.

When Jon Ronson finished his research about the consequences of free porn, he went to the man who pretty much started it all. For the most part, the man didn’t take responsibility, even though Jon pointed out that not all the consequences were bad. Some of them were good. But what’s interesting to me is that–most definitely–there were consequences. There was a butterfly effect. So I have to remind myself that whether it’s in regard to my writing or the healing of my physical body, there’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress. Rather, whatever the journey, each step is important and makes possible the one that comes after it. And since one life touches another and that life touches another, who can say where their journey ends?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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And God knows you don't make everyone else happy. But this is no reason to quit or be discouraged, since doing what you love and feel called to do is never--never--about gaining acceptance from others.

"

A Tiny Miracle Involving Balloon Animals (Blog #103)

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I used to have a cat named Mister. Like most cats, he was an asshole. He’d knock over shit in the kitchen, throw up on the wood floors, and never offer to clean up the mess. I’d be in the kitchen trying to eat my damn breakfast, and the little jerk would suddenly appear on the table as if he owned the place. He liked to hide behind corners until I walked by, and then he’d jump out, tag me as if we were playing a game, and then run away. It was all very cute except for the fact that he still had claws, which would often get stuck in my skin (that bleeds). On rare occasions, Mister would stop scratching, stop chewing, and simply lie on my stomach or around my neck like a scarf. But only when he wanted to.

A few weeks ago I was having dinner with my friends Bonnie and Todd and told them I was fascinated by the way animals do whatever the hell they want. For instance, I said, if a cat wants to be around you, it just snuggles right up without even asking. Maybe it rubs your leg, perches on your shoulder like a parrot, or sits in your lap, but it basically says, Here I am. Love me. A few minutes later, Todd got up to get something from the refrigerator, and when he came back to the table, he sat down in my lap–like a cat–and we all started laughing. I thought, Good thing I didn’t use the example of a dog sniffing someone’s crotch.

Later when Bonnie and I were in Austin, she observed that I often ask waiters and waitresses a lot of questions. Where are you from? Why’d you get that tattoo? Who does your hair? “I guess I do,” I said, “I’m almost always curious, and you can learn a lot by talking to strangers.” But Bonnie’s point was that my asking questions of strangers was a lot like a cat crawling up in someone’s lap. Here I am. Talk to me.

This afternoon Bonnie and I ate lunch at Joe’s Mexican Restaurant in Fort Smith. How I’ve managed to live here my entire life and just now find out that Joe’s has delicious tacos for one dollar a piece on Tuesdays, I’ll never know. But seriously, if you’re not already, it’s time to start spreading the taco gospel. Hungry? Fear not, my child. Salvation is near–and affordable.

Anyway, while Bonnie and I were partaking in “taco communion,” there was a lady in the booth beside us who was making balloon animals. I’m not kidding. She was like a clown at a kid’s birthday party–but dressed better. Well, not to be creepy, but I sneaked a picture of this lady blowing up a long, white balloon–right by her chips and salsa. And then I put it on Instagram. (This is the world we live in.) So a few of my friends started commenting. I know her! She makes balloons at my school. And then my hairdresser insisted. GO TALK TO HER.

Of course, I know better than to argue with my hairdresser, but I said, “She’s on her cellphone–and it looks like it came over the ark. Really. It looks like a brick. All that’s missing is a bag.”

“Marcus,” she said, “some things in life are worth waiting for.”

And then the lady got off the phone.

Fine. I’ll be a cat. Here I am. What big balloons you have.

Oh my god, y’all, everyone was right. Bonnie and I introduced ourselves, and the lady immediately gave me a balloon panda, the one she apparently made while I was stuffing six dollars worth of tacos in my mouth.

And then she opened up her purse and it was FILLED with balloons of every color. It was like she was a balloon–dealer. “What would you like me to make you?” she said with a smile, and then before I could even ask, “Could make one that looks like Zac Efron?” she said, “I know, I’ll make you an apple.”

“Sure, an apple sounds–delicious.”

And then–and then–she made a monkey–climbing a tree–to get a banana. She even talked to the monkey as she “helped” him climb the tree. Climb the tree, monkey. Doesn’t that banana look tasty?

The lady, who said her name was Carolyn, said she’d been making balloon animals for thirty years. She said, “God has all the talent, and he lets me have all the fun.” When we got ready to leave and Bonnie apologized for keeping Carolyn from her chicken fajitas, she said, “That’s secondary.” Naturally, I asked Carolyn if I could take her picture, but she pointed to a bandage on her cheek and said, “Don’t you dare. I just had surgery.” (I’m not Catholic, but I feel like this is the point at which I should say, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I took a picture of a balloon lady at a Mexican restaurant and posted it online without her knowledge.”)

Afterwards Bonnie and I went shopping to look at furniture, and I carried the panda around with me. When I got home, I gave it to my mom. The whole affair really helped make my day. It was sort of like a tiny miracle, if miracles even come in sizes. So I’ve been thinking this evening about the little ways in which we give to each other, how it truly is simple to share a smile, a story, a talent, even with someone you don’t even know.

Byron Katie, a spiritual teacher, tells a story about once when she sat down on an airplane, exhausted. She held the hand of the man beside her, even though they’d never met, and then fell asleep. She says when she woke up, he was still holding her hand. Perhaps it sounds bizarre, but Katie uses the story to illustrate the idea that our true nature is kindness. We want to help. We want to share with each other. So whereas I’m not suggesting that you reach out and grab just anyone’s hand or go around sitting in the laps of strangers, I am suggesting that if you feel like being a cat and saying, Here I am. Love me. Tell me about your big balloons, it’s not unreasonable to expect a positive response–and maybe–just maybe–a tiny miracle.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Stop buying your own bullshit.

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Free Enough for Now (Blog #90)

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You know how they say the truth will set you free–like that’s a good thing? Well, I’m not completely convinced. For the last thirty minutes–honestly–I’ve been running from the truth. What I mean by that is that every day I sit down to blog and almost always “know” what I’m supposed to write about. Most of the time, that’s okay. But sometimes, there’s a big part of me that really doesn’t want to tell the entire fucking internet that I’m an out-of-work homosexual who lives with his parents or that I’ve spent so much time with chocolate cake over the last several years that we’re about to enter into a common-law marriage with each other. But for some stupid reason I decided to start a blog about being honest and vulnerable, which means–damn it–I have to be honest and vulnerable.

Sometimes I hate that.

Yesterday I started reading a juvenile fiction book called Wonder. It’s written by RJ Palacio and has been turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Owen Wilson that will be released this fall. Here’s a link to the trailer (you should watch it if you feel like crying), but it’s basically about a boy with an abnormal face and his search for acceptance, authenticity, and love. I’m not done with the book yet, but the first hundred pages are told from the boy’s perspective, after which other characters, like his sister and a friend from school, share their perspectives. As a reader, I was a bit thrown when I realized someone else had hijacked the narrative, but I was fascinated to get more than one perspective.

This evening I went to dinner with a couple of friends at El Zarape because our friend Jimmy was waiting tables and it never hurts to know the guy pouring your margaritas. That’s us in the above picture, including Jimmy, minus the friend who DOES NOT like to have his picture taken. (I personally have a lot of dislikes but–obviously–that’s not one of them.)

For dinner I had a meal called Molcajete, which is basically steak, chicken, and cactus fajitas, served in a giant, appropriately pig-shaped goblet that I referred to as The Holy Grail. Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Amen.

So here’s the part I know I’m supposed to talk about but really don’t want to. For the last week or so, I’ve really wanted a cigarette. I mean, I quit smoking six months ago, so I sort of thought the temptation part was over, at least when I’m brushing my teeth, driving my car, or blogging. But one of my friends who’s gone through the twelve-step program says temptation doesn’t work that way, that you can go months without a craving, and then–bam–one shows up “out of the clear blue sky.” (If only boyfriends worked that way.)

Well, I’ve been handling all the cravings like a champ, even the ones that have basically been so persuasive and seductive they might as well have been Zac Efron lying next to me in bed saying, “I want you. I don’t want anyone else except you.” It really hasn’t been a problem to say, “I’m sorry. You’re cute and all, but I’m saving myself for fresh air.” But tonight at dinner–out of the clear blue sky–I had a REALLY BIG margarita, something that always lowers my standards, so when dinner was over I ended up saying, “Fuck it. I want you too, Zach–I mean–cigarettes.”

But really. Look at that thing. It would probably lower your standards too.

So I went to the gas station to buy a pack, and I’ll be damned if they hadn’t stopped selling my favorite brand, so I walked out. And went to the gas station across the street. Which had also stopped selling my favorite brand. (My mom later said this was “a sign from the universe.” I hate it when people use something I would say against me.) Anyway, I went with a different flavor and smoked one and a half. I actually quit in the middle of the second cigarette, which, historically, I don’t do. I wish I could tell you they tasted terrible, like sin and regret, but I loved every bit of them. Of course, that’s the part that scares me, so I locked the pack in the trunk of a car because I figured I’d be less likely to smoke anytime soon if they were there.

This is a strategy that may not work, since–you know–it was my car and I have the keys.

The truth doesn’t suck.

Back to being honest, I have a lot of shame around smoking. I’m not exactly sure why, but it’s probably because–at this time in history–it’s rather frowned upon. I’m afraid of what other people will think. Anytime smoking has been on my list of things to talk about in therapy, I’ve always shown up with the sirens on, lights flashing. OH MY GOD, I SMOKED ONE AND A HALF CIGARETTES LAST WEEK! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? MAYBE I SHOULD LIE DOWN ON THIS COUCH. I KNOW–LET’S TRY HYPNOSIS. But no matter how worked up I get about the actual thing, my therapist is always like, “This again? Who gives a shit about cigarettes? You’ll quit when you want to. Now would you stop judging yourself already?”

I’ve been thinking tonight about how I’m a lot like that book I’m reading. I like to think of myself as one central character, like, this is my story. But the fact is that this is our story. What I mean by that is that there’s a part of me who loves cigarettes, who comes out of the woodwork when I drink margaritas the size of crock pots. Likewise, there’s a part of me that hates cigarettes, who came home and immediately took a shower, who’s typing now, who’s usually in charge. And there’s a part of me that judges myself, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t, that accepts that I’m human, that understands I need to break the rules I’ve set for myself–occasionally.

I’m learning that all of these parts, all of these characters, deserve to have their say. I mean, I’ve tried to get rid of some of them, but they’re simply not going anywhere. I might as well listen to all of their perspectives. I know that lately I’ve been listening a lot to the character that says, “Do more. Get shit done,” so I’ve been reading and writing and exercising and eating well and go-go-going constantly.” But that’s only part of the narrative. And my guess is the character I’ve been ignoring and hearing as, “Smoke a cigarette,” was actually saying, “Would you stop being such a hard ass and take a damn break for a minute?” (Must be a problem with my ears.)

I mean, yeah, I could take a break for a minute. I’d actually like that part of the story.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I admit it. The truth doesn’t suck. I mean, I don’t know that I feel “set free,” but I do feel lighter, less worried, less ashamed. Hum. Surely that’s a good thing. And maybe–just maybe–that’s free enough for now.

[Lastly, Happy 42nd Wedding Anniversary to my parents. I’m really glad you decided to get hitched, even though Dad said it was possible for me to be here even if you hadn’t. I wanted the blog tonight to be about you and not cigarettes, but that muse wasn’t talking.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Authenticity is worth all the hard work. Being real is its own reward."